Shake Your Body To That Conga (or Broke Down Body Parts)

I just had to do a favor for my father and buy him concert tickets to Gloria Estefan because his computer is busted and he’s not comfortable having his credit card numbers on the internet. I, of course, said yes without outward hesitation, which is more than I can say for any request of this magnitude I have ever made of him. Once again I am leading you astray.

Did I mention the tickets were for Gloria Estefan? If you knew my dad, this would crack you up. You would also find it hilarious that he called me last week and asked me whom Justin Timberlake was dating. The convo went something like this:

Dad: (voicemail) Hey Danielle, it’s your dad. I’ve got a question for you, gimme a call.
(After several unsuccessful dialings, I finally remember his number)
Dad: This is Steve
Danielle:  Hi Dad. You called?
Dad: Hi, yeah, I got a question for you. An entertainment-related question.
Danielle: Ooohkay.
Dad: Who is the actress that is dating Justin Timberlake?
Danielle: Cameron Diaz?
Dad : Yeah, that’s her. She was in Charlie’s Angels?
Danielle: Yup.
Dad: Ok. Thanks. I figured if anybody would know, it would be you.
Danielle: Yeah, I’m—I’m up on that stuff.
Dad: Well, ok. Thanks.
Danielle: Ok, Dad.
Dad: Luv you, bye.
Danielle: Luv you too, bye Dad.
I hang up the phone
Danielle: …the hell?

If you know my dad, you’re laughing your ass off right now.

Do you think that the fact that my credit card numbers are now forever linked to two tickets to a Gloria Estefan concert will bear weight on my future as a person striving for coolness? I think so.

So, on Wednesday, Dr. Dennis F will make four incisions in my abdomen, fill it up with CO2 gas, insert a camera, a light, and an x-ray wand, along with 2 other scissor-like utensils, place metal clamps on my arteries in that area, WHICH WILL STAY THERE FOREVER (though I have been assured they will not set off the metal detectors in airports), and then cut away my broken gall bladder. Because as far as I am concerned, if that sh*t don’t work, get it outta there! Poof! Gone!

I have slight fear of dying under anesthesia, which I don’t think is too irrational. But I am assured this is a very successful laparoscopic procedure, so I’m thinking I’ll survive it.

What I may not survive is my mom, WHOM I LOVE TO DEATH, living with me in my cozy little one bedroom apartment for the purpose of nurturing me backto health, watching countless hours of CourtTV and no doubt burning up my long-distance in the meantime.

I love you, Mom. But I pay for the damn cable. THE REMOTE IS MINE.